


For the Future

by thegriffin88



Series: Handler Chronicles [2]
Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dildos, Established Relationship, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Serious Conversation, This is not love, borderline alcoholsim, brita filters, of the platonic sort I cannot stress that enough, references to stories I haven't written, three things that describe this weird story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegriffin88/pseuds/thegriffin88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent 'Handler' of Fury receives an actual letter, in this day and age of 2015, from an old friend asking for her help. What could the one man she knows who would send an actual letter, in a suspiciously green envelope, need help with? And why her of all people? Well she'll waste no time finding out. </p><p>Set waaaaaaaay after A Year in Latveria, a story I haven't written but is the story as to how she became this friendly with the big bad Dr. Doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Future

It was a sleepy autumn morning when Handler received the letter. She could tell without even opening the ornate, green envelope that this was most certainly not a bill. Tony doesn’t do ‘snail mail’, she thought as she walked back up her driveway, coffee mug in one hand, strange letter in the other. Steve, yeah but this green…it’s not Christmas anytime soon. Loki, absolutely not, he liked popping in unannounced for sex and coffee. Not that Handler minded that. Of course, that only left one person she knew who would send an actual letter in a certain shade of green envelope.

                Setting the mug down on the kitchen table she smiled and neatly opened the parcel, extracting the letter. The paper was a gloriously heavy stock, and yet still very smooth. She sniffed it; damn it even carried that scent, ozone and metal. Magic and machinery. Oh yeah, this was from him.  She flipped open the letter, it was embossed with gold leaf and written in flourished calligraphy:

 

_Dearest Handler,_

_Doom cordially invites you to join him at castle Doomstadt, so that he may discuss with you a rather pressing matter. Do not be late, Doom is waiting._

_-Doctor Victor von Doom of Latveria_

               

And inside was an airplane ticket into the infamously locked down country. Oh this was going to be good.

The next day she met with one of the Embassy attendants and was escorted to a waiting plane. Handler marveled at the first class interior of a genius’ private jet. Tony, Victor, Reed, or (Handler pursed her lips) Norman, it never got old.

“Would you care for a drink madam?” the attendant asked as she got herself settled.

“Yeah can I get a Blue Blazer?” Handler said without skipping a beat.

The attendant stood in stunned silence for a moment. Handler broke the tension with a laugh.

“Just kidding, kidding,” she snickered, “I’ll take a Tom Collins, easy on the sugar.”

As the man bowed and then departed, she took out her tablet and hooked into the plane’s wireless network. This required no hacking on her end; the plane knew to accept her device as a friend.  Idly she wondered exactly how stocked the bar was aboard this thing. Victor almost exclusively drank red wine, but clearly this jet was designed for what she liked to call ‘the mile high roundtable’. She came to the conclusion that Victor spared no expense and that the bar was probably worth at least a million dollars.

She booted up Spotify and began to chill to the sounds of Tape Five; just the mood music to go with her drink and her 3 hour flight to Latveria. This plane could make the Concorde weep.

**3 hours and an ocean away later…**

“What’s up bitches, I’m back!” Handler screamed as she kicked open the door to Doomstadt Castle, scaring at least five servants in the process.

Actually, the only member of the help who wasn’t at all fazed by this was Boris. When Handler saw him, she squealed.

                “Boris!” she ran over and pretty much glomped the older gentleman. “Boris it’s been foreverrrrr!” she smiled.

                “It is lovely to see you too, Agent Handler.” Boris replied, “The Master will see you shortly, he is very busy, as always.”

                “Yeah, leave it to Victor to send me an invite to this place and then be too deep into some robotic rabbit hole to see me.” she waved her hand, “It’s fine, it’s fine, I can show myself the way to the living room!”

                The ‘living room’ was one of many such rooms in the castle. The only thing different about it was that this was the one she and Victor had frequented in the year she had lived here. Well, that and it was the only one with a portrait of Cynthia von Doom in it. That’s how she could tell, because getting lost in a place like this was no joke. Handler distinctly remembered an embarrassing and all around awkward conversation she had attempted to have with a maid whilst trying to find this room.

                _“Er…donde esta el sala?”_

_“Savi?”_

_“Sprichst du deutch? wo ist das Wohnzimmer?”_

_“KaerkaEngri mandi jinnavvas.”_

_“Nǎlǐ shì tā mā de kètīng?!”_

                It had actually been Boris who had saved her that day. Good thing all the bedrooms had an included bathroom or she’d have been done for. 

                She sauntered into the room and straight over to the bar. She and Victor shared one common personality trait: borderline alcoholism. She was fixing herself an Irish coffee, her preferred way to take her daily dose of caffeine, when she noticed the bar’s sink. That’s when Victor walked in.

                “The Brita filter?” Handler said, half laughing as she sipped her drink.

                Doom just stared at her.

                “Yeah, hi, you invited me here. Do you really need to welcome me formally? We’ve known each other too long for that.” Handler said.

                Victor huffed and went straight for the wine cabinet. Handler laughed.

                “Your flight here was largely uneventful, I presume?” he asked.

                “Yeah I was asleep for most of it. Now, the Brita filter.”

                Victor turned and they both stared at it.

_Christmas Day, 2 years ago._

_Handler hit the little green phone button on Skype and Victor, mask and cape exuding his Doom presence even through the series of tubes that was the internet._

_“What is the meaning of this?”_

_It was a legitimate question, this time Handler had sent him a gift with a purpose, not something stupid like she usually did to goad him into a reaction other than cold brilliance._

_“It’s a Brita filter!” Handler beamed._

_“I know **what** it is. I’m asking why you chose to gift me this.” Doom huffed._

_“Uh, how about because you live in a freakin’ castle and the pipes have got to be made of lead!”_

_“They are not made of lead!”_

_“And how do you-”_

_“Because I renovated this place myself! Water pipes included!” Doom shouted._

_“Oh.” Handler said, clearly confused. But that passed quickly because soon she was back to, “Well you could have things in your groundwater, like mercury or something. Just looking out for ya.” she leaned in close to the camera and smiled, “Merry Christmas, Victor.” before pressing the little red phone button._

                “I honestly can’t believe you kept that. Installed it no less!”

                Victor shrugged, “It has its uses.”

                “Good thing I didn’t get you the other present I had considered.”

                “Which was?”

                “You don’t wanna know. Black Widow told me it would start World War Three.”

 

                _A few weeks before Christmas, 2 years ago._

_Natasha leaned over the back of the couch Handler was slouched in, on her tablet PC._

_“Shopping for Victor?”_

_“Yeeup.” Handler said._

_“Then I would get off that website, you’re pressing your luck with that and Fury will be pissed if you start World War Three on his watch.”_

_Handler cocked her head to the side, considering. “Yeah, you’re right. Tony’s probably getting me this anyway. In which case I’ll beat him over the head with it.”_

_And with that she closed the tab to baddragon.com and opened one for Amazon._

               

                “Anyway!” Handler said, switching gears, “You said this was a ‘ _pressing matter_ ’.”

                Doom stiffened, then nodded. “Yes. Come, let us sit.”

                “You sit. I wanna stand by the fireplace with my drink like I’m Sherlock Holmes while I listen to you.”

                “Handler.” Victor said in a voice that meant she should probably just cut it out and sit.

                “Or I could sit. Geeze this is bothering you, isn’t it?” she said, taking a larger sip of her drink. “So what _is_ going on with you then?”

                Victor sighed, and Handler could tell by his body language alone that he was biting his lip, trying to maintain that air of authority. Just what could have rattled him so? She’d only ever seen him like this once before, on the night before he and Dr. Strange descended into Hell to rescue Cynthia’s soul from the clutches of Mephisto. She was in a very exclusive club of ‘People who have seen Dr. Victor von Doom nervous’. A club which included herself, Dr. Strange and Boris, probably.

                “A few days ago I received this letter.” he said at last, procuring an envelope from somewhere in that cloak he wore and handing it to her.

                Handler did the same thing she had done with his letter. She felt the paper, the envelope was smooth, a very fine grade, lightly embossed but without any gold or silver trim. She sniffed it, it smelled…clean. There was no other word for it, clean with (another sniff) a hint of something else, something flowery maybe? Then she turned it over: it was addressed from…oh, the Future Foundation. Well, there it was, the final piece of the puzzle. Reed Richards, Victor’s ‘arch nemesis’, had contacted him via the Foundation. Handler knew instantly what the letter read.

                “Reed invited you to join the Foundation.” she mused as she opened the envelope and began to read its contents.

               

                _Dear Dr. Victor von Doom,_

_The Future Foundation has recognized your work in Latveria and has acknowledged how it has benefited its people. On your behalf we would request that you join us in the pursuit of a better world, through the power and collective thinking of the most brilliant scientists in the world. We hope that you will consider this offer._

_Sincerely, Dr. Reed Richards_

 

      But there was a piece of paper behind that, this one of lighter stock, more common. It was hand written on a piece of lined stationary, ripped from a notebook, clearly.

               

              _Dear Victor,_

_This is more than a courtesy; Reed really thinks that we can better the whole world if we work together. Please, for me, consider putting all of this, all of the fighting and the grudges, behind you and helping us, for the future. If nothing else, at least consider it._

_-Sue_

“Susan Storm?!”

                “She writes to me occasionally. That is not the concern I was referring to in the letter-”

                “You and Sue write to each other?” Handler gaped.

                “You are not the only person with whom I am in contact.”

                “So that makes two people who aren’t on the watch list.” Handler said, re-reading the letter. “Wow, this is serious.”

                “It is.” Victor replied.

                “Haaave you considered it?”

                Victor was silent for a long bit after that, staring at the portrait of his mother, lost in thought. Handler was just about to snap her fingers to see if she could bring him back when he answered.

                “I have.”

                “And your conclusion is…?” Handler asked.

                “Well if I had made my decision I wouldn’t have called you here now would I?” Victor replied, somewhat snappishly.

                It was Handler’s turn to be silent for a bit.

                “Victor,” she said, “I’m not making this decision for you. I won’t because my knee-jerk response would be to say ‘yes’ so that you’d get bumped down on the watch list. Not off of it, Fury says the only way you’re getting off of it is when you’re cold and dead. He’s so heartless sometimes. But no, this is a decision you need to make yourself.”

                Victor sighed wearily and leaned back into the couch, forever attempting to maintain composure. Actually, Handler mused, the only time she’d ever seen him without that emotional mask was when Morgan le Fay had knocked him senseless and she and Norman had to come to his rescue. For a second that day, on that smoking hill, she thought she’d lost him.

                The road to where they were today had been a long and harried one. No more was the wide-eyed spring chicken of a girl spending a year in a castle in a country ‘more locked down than North Korea’. The Civil War had made her jaded, and working under Osborne had tarnished her somewhat, though her marriage to Loki had seemed to be the WD-40 to that. She was much wiser to the workings of the world, and happier with her life than she had been since her parents had died, decades ago now. She idly wondered if Victor was feeling the same weariness she had felt in the Osborne Tower, a few days before the Siege. A certain weariness of the soul, she had tired of seeing people fight over what seemed like such idiotic things to her; it was always the same, money, power, love.

                “I know how you feel.” she said, hoping her bluff would work, “I’m tired of it too. Was tired of it.”

                “Of these endless wars we wage?” Victor questioned, not in his ‘Doom’ voice but in that pleasing baritone he would use when they were truly alone, when he was just Victor.

                It had taken a long time to get him to trust her that much, an achievement she wished she could attach to her World of Warcraft character instead of her resume.

                _“I’m rad as hell.”_ part of her thought.

                “It starts to wear on you, ya know?” Handler replied with a shrug. “That, and, I’m guessing this has more to do with Susan St- I mean Richards’, letter. And wipe that look off your face.”

                “What look?” Victor growled.

                “The one that you get before you shoot the messenger. It’s not like you guys even have a proper love triangle, you know. It’s more of a love…obtuse angle. Sue’s the center, Reed is the baseline and you’re that part that sticks out way over in left field. Do you understand that? Because I failed geometry.”

                “I can tell.” he huffed. “It would be useless to attempt to fool you on this. You know me too well.”

                “I hope you mean that in an endearing sort of fashion and not a ‘I’ll have to kill you now’ fashion.”

                Another huff, this time one of amusement. “After all of the effort I put into protecting you when S.H.I.E.L.D. fell?”

                “True, you’re pretty invested in protecting me.”

                Neither of them had been comfortable when Handler had worked under Osborne, but Handler personally felt she dealt with it better, emotionally at least. At least now she was back with Fury and Doom wasn’t constantly trying to strangle Namor every time the Cabal had a meet up. Handler honestly didn’t know if she’d care if Namor died. He hated pants and loved annoying her. If anything, she feared the paperwork and possible political fallout.

                “Victor,” she said, “I think that, if you are as tired of these same old fights as I am, then you should give this whole thing a good, loooong thinking session and decide if you want to do something to perhaps move us forward as a species. Maybe even give it the good old college try. Just know that I’m not going to judge you about it. Yes or no I’ll keep on loving you in that weird platonic sort of way.”

                And she knew that made him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, yeah. The dildo thing. Look it's kinda a kick back to one of the first Doom stories I read here called A Choice of Valentines. Handler's a PG-13 rating at the highest (whenever she and Loki are together) so it's more of just an homage if that makes sense. I just figured everyone would be wondering about that part. 
> 
> Although it does imply that Handler can see Doom's expressions he is in full armor. (And I kinda hate anyone who doesn't write him in it he's pretty much glued into it. Via the amazing properties of freshly smelted metal. Victor you weirdo you. Love ya.) Handler can just kinda make a vague guess as to what his reactions to things are because she's known him for so long. So yeah, she knows he's getting annoyed and grouchy when she ribs him about Sue being married to Reed. 
> 
> NATURALLY you can't see the sweet fonts that I had worked up for this. It plays a small part when Handler quotes the letter because she says it in the font of the letter and here I can't use that so fuck it. If you want to see how brilliant I was for a second it's up on deviantart, username stays the same. 
> 
> Handler's language progression in the flashback about the maid is how my brain actually works when I have to speak to someone with a low to no grasp on English. Spanish I know the most of, but knowing how to say 'there is a cow in the way' isn't really helpful, I want to learn German, being part German and know a few phrases but not enough to string together a sentence that isn't telling someone my name. Mandarin I'd like to learn but in this case it's more that Handler is devolving and she knows that the maid isn't going to speak freakin' Chinese if she doesn't speak German. The Mandarin actually translates to 'where is the fucking living room', instead of just 'where is the living room'. 
> 
> The maid does, in fact, speak Romani. People often default to Hungarian or just say Latverian but Victor and his people are Romani. Gypsys. So I use Romani for them and one time Handler pissed him off real bad. It's also a bitch of a language to translate there's no proper translator for it so grammar goes out the window. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is part of a headcanon universe thing I've been working on. Obviously I can't tell you everything about Handler right now but that's all revealed in the stories I guess. A Year in Latveria WILL be the next thing I write about her that is Doom related. It will explain most of the things here. 
> 
> Naturally, since this is headcanon it will diverge at times, in a sin(x) sort of fashion. (Just pop that into WolframAlpha and you'll get it) So yeah, not everything is Handler/Victor. Some is Handler/Loki, sometimes it's Handler working under Osborne, sometimes it's before the Civil War, a lot goes on. My DA account has a full timeline of her adventures. thegriffin88.deviantart.com


End file.
